


Dear Forgiveness

by hubrisandwax



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Drug Use, Post-Season/Series 02, discussions of depression, kind of almost sex scene, look basically all the warnings asssociated with simon's past ngl, only major character death is Amy's in line with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon almost killed Kieren.</p><p>It’s not a thought that sits at all comfortably with him. It has coloured every interaction Simon has had with Kieren since 12/12, but Simon doesn’t know how he can even begin to explain.</p><p>As Simon reflects on his past and his present in the wake of Amy’s death, the now not so sleepy town of Roarton still turns restlessly around him. For Simon, there’s concerns about the ULA and how to protect the one he almost loves from his past; questions regarding who the first Risen really is; and to top it all off, an energy that hums under the skin of every PDS sufferer regardless of further segregation. A change is coming.</p><p>But can Simon reconcile this future with his past and come clean, figuratively and literally?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2014/2015 [In The Flesh Mini-bang](http://inthefleshminibang.tumblr.com/) Challenge! this is my first In The Flesh fic, and i had a lot of fun playing with the characters. i wrote this because i felt a lot of Simon's perspective was missing from canon. we were given some great hints, but nothing too explicit, and i wanted to explore his story further. i hope i've done it justice (i may or may not rework the ending when I have time). some scenes are influenced by the scripts as opposed to what actually made final episode cuts (such as part 3).
> 
> thank you so much to [littlenim](http://littlenimart.tumblr.com), who did the absolutely incredible [art for this fic](http://littlenimart.tumblr.com/post/114806876672/my-finished-piece-for-the-itf-minibang-this-is). it's completely perfect. she's super lovely, very talented, and i really enjoyed working with her :D!!!
> 
> thanks is also owed to my beta and partner in crime, [purrugly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/purrugly), for generally putting up with me.
> 
> come roll around /w me on tumblr. new friends are my fave: [hubrisandwax.tumblr.com](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com)
> 
> tile taken from the Richard Siken poem _Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_..

 

 

>  
> 
> Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently
> 
>                      we have had our difficulties and there are many things
> 
>                                                                                                   I want to ask you.
> 
> I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,
> 
>              years later, in the chlorinated pool.
> 
>                                       I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have
> 
>              these luxuries...
> 
> \- Richard Siken, [ _Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177722)

I

**[ _Dreams_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2Zu7qJqDXQ) **

There’s always that moment, however long or short, where time fractures into tiny splinters and a decision must be made. It can teeter in any direction; the consequences of each choice playing out like a grainy film in one’s mind as time freezes before it snaps. Simon is there right now, watching in sickened fascination as everything develops before him as he tries to take control of his own fate. It’s a yes or no sort of problem. Neither action is necessarily right, or easy, but he could stand here and struggle with Gary and pretend that he never intended for Kieren to die all along, the decision ultimately taken out of his bloodless hands, or he could kill Kieren himself.

But. _But._

Simon has a moment of lucid clarity. His mother’s face looms before him, a spectre of both his former life and his guilt, superimposing over a memory of Kieren’s smiling face. Kieren, who is now fighting the Blue Oblivion harder than anyone has before and is succeeding. He hasn’t touched his father, or not violently, at least - instead he clutches at the collar of Steve’s raincoat with clenched fists. Surely Simon has the strength to throw off a very different sort of control. He may not have the willpower that Kieren has, and he may be battling months of conditioning, of entrenched belief, of utter faith, but he feels a passion unlike anything he has before. 

He pushes Gary off on impulse and _runs_.

To be honest, as he sprints towards Kieren, he’s unsure if he wants to save the goddamn boy from the guns cocked at his head or drive his knife into Kieren himself. It’s still wrapped in his fingers, glinting and ugly. Suspicion would be diverted from him, at least, were he to decide to act, and which does he care about more: one inconsequential (no, the _most_ consequential, who is he kidding) child, or the countless lives of the redeemed? Will he be the saviour of one, or the hero of the damned. 

As he throws himself at Kieren, even he’s unsure of his ultimate decision.

Time stretches, putty-thick, its progression immovable. The only sensations that feel real are the press of damp air against his face, the back of his neck, and the handle of the blade digging into the flesh of his palm. He can barely even see, his vision narrowing to one focal point: _Kieren._

There’s an impact just as the shot rings out, its echo like a heart monitor signifying death. Then nothing.

 A beat before time starts up again, Simon’s breaths like the spaces between the ticking second hand of a clock.

 Kieren’s body is pressed to the dirt underneath him, he knows that much, but he’s too scared to look. Simon lies there, panting, trying to hear something in the silence that will indicate what the outcome is: whether Kieren is alive or dead; whether Simon will be looking at black and brains if he shifts his view. His immediate response is to look out at the crowd to gauge something from their reactions, but all he can see is shock and fear and shifting bodies. He can delay no further.

Simon glances down. Kieren’s eyelids flutter open.

Only in that moment does Simon realise how much Kieren means to him; how much he genuinely feared losing him. Simon’s lips stretch into a smile and his fingers relax their grip on the knife as he moves his hands to touch Kieren’s face, feeling nothing but relief. And guilt. Always, always guilt. The muscles is his cheeks begin to ache and all he wants to do is press his lips to Kieren’s, to prove to himself that the boy really is still alive, because even in the absence of sensation the act itself is a form of comfort, a means of reinforcing an emotional connection. 

But there are people, and Simon probably doesn’t deserve it, all things considered, so instead he shifts off Kieren and eyes him guiltily. The situation is a first in a day filled with cascading failures; Simon just doesn’t know it yet.

 

* * *

 

Simon sits in the dark on the edge of Kieren’s bed. He breathes.

His own face stares down at him, caught in the moonlight and scribbled in Kieren’s broad graphite strokes, his expression slightly haunted, slightly inhuman. It’s disconcerting. He’s unsure whether Kieren’s parents are even aware he’s still in the house, but it’s thankfully quiet, save for the repetitious sound of his own breathing and the wind as it sighs against the concrete of the house.

Kieren’s family thanked him for saving Kieren’s life. Kieren’s family don’t understand that Simon himself was almost responsible for their son’s second death. Whilst his guilt may have carried to bringing Amy to the village, it was what he couldn’t say that tormented him the most. He is the snake; he is the wolf in sheep’s clothing; he is Judas to the ULA and to Kieren. No matter which way you look at it, Simon does not believe he deserves redemption.

He hasn’t even managed to talk to Kieren about why he disappeared – which he shouldn’t have, regardless, given the circumstances. The death of a friend supersedes any personal grievances; the last week has been only about Amy. But Simon still feels like there are unspoken words that hang like a cloud between he and Kieren, colouring their silences, souring their interactions. If Amy were here she’d yell at them for being silly, for not resolving their differences. Simon misses her something fierce, constantly; an ache in his stomach that never quite leaves, not unlike like the pangs he feels for his mother.

There’s a sudden noise outside on the landing: footsteps and a floorboard creaking. Simon rises from his perch at the end of the bed, unfolding his long limbs, worried that it’s something unwanted. Or something that doesn’t want him. But it’s okay; the door opens and Kieren walks in, closing it quietly behind himself.

Simon and Kieren stand opposite each other and regard each other carefully for a moment before the tension suddenly leaves Kieren’s body and he sags. Simon steps forward, worried he’ll fall, but instead Kieren half-sighs and moves to sit on the edge of the bed as Simon sat before. Simon hesitantly mirrors Kieren’s action, lowering himself to the duvet, hands gripping tightly at the thin material.

“It’s… over,” Kieren says into the dark, and Simon understands immediately what he means: the stuff with Maxine Martin, the ULA, the Second Rising, Amy’s funeral, Amy. Amy, Amy, Amy. Simon wants to take his hand, but he’s unsure if the touch is welcome. If Simon himself even deserves to seek comfort. He reaches out anyway. Kieren doesn’t pull away. Neither of them talk for a moment, before, “What does all this mean for us, Simon?” and Simon doesn’t know if Kieren means PDS suffers or them, personally. Their relationship. Simon thought he’d made himself clear – “ _No._ _I’m staying_ _put._ ” – but he’s never done terribly well at interpersonal relationships, so maybe it wasn’t enough. Kieren wants reassurance in every regard and Simon’s unsure what he can give. Whether or not he can stop being a coward. 

“We need to…” he begins, because they need this before they progress further, and he tightens his grip on Kieren’s hand unintentionally as he tries to find the right words. Kieren grips back. Even in his own time of weakness, Kieren is offering himself to Simon as a pillar to lean on, and it’s almost too much for Simon. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to kiss him.

“Talk, I know,” Kieren finishes, softly. He’s tired. Simon can tell by the tone of his voice. Kieren then leans into Simon’s space, pressing his face into the juncture between Simon’s neck and shoulder, breathing in. Simon allows himself to reach up and rest a hand – the one not encasing Kieren’s - in the boy’s hair. Kieren sighs and says, “You need to tell me why you left.”

So Simon summons his courage, presses his mouth to Kieren’s forehead, and tries to start from the beginning.

 

II

[ **_Reason With Me_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNCOXPm4pDE)

_Before_ means nothing. This is what he reiterates to Kieren in simpler terms, leaving out the unnecessary details.

Before is a haze of sense memory; overlapping sensations and blurred recollections that bleed together like charcoal and damp ash, everything coloured by pain until nothing exists anymore, not really. Time is linear until you’re in agony. Time is linear until there’s a needle in your arm. Time is linear unit it’s not and instead it becomes a tangled ball of feeling and indistinct memory, nothing ever really clear, everything mostly half-smeared, except for the odd sharp shot in a reel of overexposed film.

That which Simon does remember is dope-induced highs and too many bodies, one after the other, snagged in the half-light and rutting against each other like they were looking for salvation in a quick drug-fuelled almost-fuck. The pain was distinct, the ever-present devil whispering in his ear as it perched on his shoulder, until he was lying on a hotel floor at three am with a stranger’s naked body stretched beside his as he reached for the tourniquet, the taste of metal thick at the back of his throat. It chokes the joy, the substance, from everything, this miasma. Now he only remembers in sensation and flickering images. In flashes of colour and bursts of pain underscored by an ever-present beat, that beat, echoing from the clubs he frequented, the hearts of boys he slept with: a hummingbird fluttering for release.

He speaks to Kieren of _before_ in terms of raw nerves and agony, of the futility of existence. We all inevitably die, anyway, our lives ending in a puddle of vomit, or blood, or faecal matter, brought back to the roots of what it is to be _human._ It’s all so _base,_ in the end, so why not embrace this liberty.

He never much liked the term ‘nihilist.’ It was too reductive.

But now he’s sitting in a darkened room with the man he wants pressed against the length of him. They’re lying back on the bed, now, and despite Simon’s abstract, aloof descriptions - despite his inability to truly convey his experiences - Kieren is still touching him. Still listening to him in this bedroom that reminds Simon so much of his own. Well, the one in his father’s house, at least, but he supposes it isn’t his anymore. Only in memory.

Back after he returned from the centre at Norfolk, he’d stood in his childhood room, Morrisey’s laconic smile leering at him from the wall, surrounded by the photographs of the football players he admired in his youth, the sketches of racecars and their drivers, and wondered when everything became too much. Addiction is a mental illness – he knows that, now, after the endless therapy sessions he was subjected to _inside_ – but what was it that triggered his in the first place?

He was surprised that his father kept all his old junk. Even the bedspread was the same. Simon wondered at the time whether, if he focussed hard enough on his childhood, he could be transported back, a barely damaged fourteen year old dreaming of freedom in a different country. Instead he dumped his bag on his bed and went to find his father.

The ULA was another addiction, one that promised escapism in acceptance – what Simon believed was a much less destructive lie. He realises that now, he says to Kieren. He may have been able to avoid the sharp pull created by the thought of consuming sheep’s brains at Amy’s party (he could sit outside, away from the commotion, the idea of release), but there was no avoiding the need to seek validation in approval. The Undead Prophet’s words – and mirrored by Julian - struck a chord after repeated rejection, and all Simon wanted was acceptance. Another chance. Maybe he wasn’t all that terrible if God could love him, even after all the blasphemy and drugs and death. So he sought repentance in thoughts of belonging, in the idea that he was meant to be here because it was God’s will. It made him feel powerful. It made him feel worth something.

And then there was Kieren.

“Amy spoke about you, before,” Simon says into Kieren’s skin. “At the compound. She said she had a friend who was strong and stubborn and smart, but scared. So scared. I wanted to meet you, after all she’d told me about you.” He pauses, looking up into Kieren’s face. “I wanted to save you.”

Kieren begins to say something, to voice a retort, but he appears to think better of it and, for once, it dies on his lips.

“But, of course, you never needed saving,” Simon continues in Kieren’s silence, “and my delusions of grandeur were knocked as a consequence. You figured out your own path perfectly well by yourself.”

Simon doesn’t know . He wasn’t expecting some who, on outset, appeared as fragile as a baby deer but who held more strength, more passion, than anyone Simon had ever met. Simon admired Kieren’s quiet confidence, his general disregard for the opinions of those he didn’t care about. A quality Simon had worked towards but never quite attained. Someone told him, once, that for every person who wants to be accepted and loved unconditionally by many, there are others who just want to be accepted for who they are. Simon falls into the former category and it has troubled him his entire life, whilst Kieren, the latter.

“And so my journey for acceptance drove me to the city to meet Julian, another apostle of the Undead Prophet. We met at the centre in Norfolk. He was who encouraged me to join the ULA in the first place.”

“So that’s where you disappeared to last week?”

“Yes.” Simon exhales slowly, pursing his lips, and shifts until he’s staring out the window at the stars, not at Kieren’s face. “What he conveyed to me, I…” He swallows. “It disturbed me. Enormously. I broke down, and…”

“It was to do with the second rising, wasn’t it?”

Simon glances back at Kieren and inclines his head in affirmation. “I, also, was entrusted with what you called a ‘fanatical’ task.”

“To kill Amy, you mean? The first risen or whatever? Seriously?”

“Yes. No.” Simon grits his teeth, flexes his jaw. Closes his eyes. “You.” He says after pausing for a beat, and almost chokes on the word, but it’s out there, now. No taking it back.

“What?”

“I was instructed to kill the first risen. I was instructed to kill you.” Simon says the words plaintively, quietly, almost as a whisper, a prayer for forgiveness. His eyelids flutter open. Kieren hasn’t moved away, but his mouth is a hard line, his expression unreadable, and it’s some kind of agony. “I almost did.” 

To his credit, Kieren doesn’t even flinch. “I’m not…" 

“I thought you were the first risen, after your story over lunch that day.”

Kieren stiffens. “But you didn’t.” He pauses. Breathes. “Kill me, I mean. It was Pearl who shot at me; you saved my life.”

Simon knows he looks lost. Pathetic. He shifts away from Kieren, sitting up, feet on the floor and hands clasped in his lap. Kieren rises, too. “Because I couldn’t. I’m not a killer - not in my treated state. I would never hurt you.”

“But you were there in in the graveyard to… that’s what the knife was for, right?”

“Yes.”

Kieren lets out a shuddering breath. Breathing is more a force of habit, a means of talking, than something critical to continued life. It hasn’t lost its significance as a form of expression, though, and Simon tenses. “So you saved my life instead of taking it. Why?”

Simon wasn’t expecting this question. “Because I don’t have the strength that God does. I can’t sacrifice something – even for the greater good – that I love. Could love. You’re incredible, Kieren. Beautiful. I mean that.”

Kieren almost laughs. “I think, at least in this instance, you have more strength than God.” He’s silent for a while. Simon watches the shadows the streetlight outside casts play across the ceiling, overlapping shapes that orbit around one another. “I mean, this is… big. I’m not…”

“I know,” Simon says, and he does. He looks at Kieren. “I wanted to be honest, though. If we’re… if I’m… staying, we need…”

“Thank you.” Kieren’s mouth twitches into a small smile, and to be honest, Simon was expecting something terrible. He thought Kieren would leave, would never want to see him again. Would kick him out just as his father had. Of course, that’s always Kieren, though – challenging Simon’s expectations. “Just talk to me next time, yeah? I’ll pull you round.”

Simon looks at his fingers, which he laces together to stop them twitching. Nervous habit. “You’re not… scared? Of me? After-”

“That’s not you, Simon,” Kieren interrupts. “You’re difficult, and you’re insecure, and I can’t say I’m upset that all the prophet bullshit is over.” He reaches out and touches Simon’s face. “But you’re also kind, and intelligent, and you care. It’s about intent. It’s not – it wasn’t – _you_.”

Simon smiles for the first time in what feels like forever. He feels like a weight, one he wasn’t even aware he was carrying, has been lifted. He’s borderline elated. His mouth pulls into a smile, all teeth, and he can’t help but reach out to Kieren. Simon hesitates, though, his fingertips ghosting Kieren’s shoulders, waiting to see if Kieren’s okay with touch. Kieren doesn’t pull away.

So Simon gently pushes Kieren against the mattress and crawls over him until he’s caging Kieren with his limbs. Kieren’s breath stutters. Simon noses at Kieren’s neck, breathes him in, imagines he can smell Kieren’s scent. He would taste the way the world smells after it rains – damp and fresh and clean. Simon whispers Kieren’s name like a prayer, anchoring himself to this moment, this bed, where Kieren is sprawled underneath him and anything is possible.

“Can I…” Simon says, running his gaze down the length of Kieren’s body. Kieren whimpers. He nods, swallowing, pupils blown wide.

“I haven’t,” Kieren says, gasping as Simon eases the zipper on his jeans down, down, down, and Simon murmurs, “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” in response. Kieren has told Simon about Rick, about all that did and didn’t and could’ve happened. It’s okay. Simon’s been there. 

He gently divests Kieren of all his clothing: first his trousers; then his jumper; his shirt; his undershirt, until Kieren is wearing nothing but his pants. Simon drinks him in, and Kieren shudders under his gaze. His body is long, skinny, where Simon knows his own is filled out, much bigger. Simon pulls off his own clothing, then, until they’re a tangle of naked limbs snagged together in the mottled moonlight.

Only then does he pull off his pants, exposing his own body first.

Kieren just sort of stares.  Simon feels a little self-conscious; Kieren’s expression is almost reverent. Simon regards Kieren seriously, then, fingers running along the edge of the elastic on Kieren’s pants. Kieren nods. They’re both still flaccid – a lack of blood tends to be a hindrance in regard to a number of bodily functions, erections included – but it still feels more intimate than any sex Simon has ever had. 

Kieren speaks again, his voice husky with arousal. “If we could…” he pauses, clears his throats, starts again. “You know, before, I definitely would have…”

And Simon chuckles softly in response, smiling up at Kieren. “I understand,” he murmurs, before dropping his head to mouth at the head of Kieren’s cock. Kieren groans this time, shifting, his thighs falling apart. It’s the thought of the sensation, the action, which catches both of them. It’s heady. “I know we can’t really go the whole way,” Simon continues, looking up at Kieren, “but we can… look. And imagine.”

Kieren smiles. “I’d like that,” he says softly, and the edge of Simon’s mouth quirks in response.

He begins by narrating every action he takes, whispering the words into Kieren’s skin. Caught in the milky moonlight, Kieren is a white stroke pressed against the dark bedcover, his body the colour of carved marble, hair a contrasting shock of strawberry blonde atop his head and curling around his cock. He’s stunning. Beautiful. Simon tells him as much as he kisses every part of Kieren he can reach – the soles of his feet; the back of his knees; the swell of his back where spine reaches tailbone. Simon pays particular attention to Kieren’s mouth, the bolt of his jaw, his nipples, his cock, until Kieren is almost writhing beneath him, whimpering, moaning. It’s the best thing he’s ever seen. Who needs drugs when they can have _this?_ The opportunity to make someone they care about feel so good.

Later, they’re lying under Kieren’s sheets. Simon is gently running his hand through Kieren’s hair as he rests his head on Simon’s chest. He’s the happiest he’s been in as long as he can remember, and he wants to somehow express that to Kieren, but:

“We have to be careful, now,” Simon half-whispers, bending his neck until Kieren’s hair is brushing his face. He pauses to kiss Kieren’s forehead, feels Kieren stirring. “Because I didn’t trigger the second rising, the Undead Prophet – and Julian – will want answers.”

“Later,” Kieren mumbles sleepily. He nuzzles at Simon’s pectorals. “Can we… later.”

“Okay,” Simon says, chuckling, more a huff of breath than a laugh. He shifts their bodies until Kieren is cocooned in his own. Kieren makes a contented sighing noise and says, “Thank you,” although Simon’s unsure what Kieren means, because Simon’s done nothing, really, except care for Kieren. 

He tries to settle. Eventually, Kieren’s breaths settle into a deeper, more regular pattern, indicating that he’s fallen asleep. Simon just feels restless. He tries not to move too much, to disturb Kieren, and instead tries to count his breaths. That turns in to watching the shapes cast by the light outside play across the ceiling, to closing his eyes and trying to clear his mind, to repeating the lyrics to songs in his head. Each time he thinks he’s going to drift off, he’s jolted awake by the image of Kieren dying in his arms; a memory of his time at the facility; Amy’s smiling face; or Julian’s face, menacing, hands outstretched and clutching the knife Simon was supposed to use to kill Kieren. 

Finally, at around 3am according to the angry red numbers of the clock beside Kieren’s bed, Simon falls into a restless slumber.

 

III

[ _Forgiveness_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV9nVjFRmbA)

Simon wakes early the next morning, feeling strung-out and under slept. Kieren’s arm is resting across Simon’s waist, his body likely sleep-warm, his face lax, and Simon is loathed to wake him up. So he carefully eases himself from under Kieren and out of the bed, shoulders his backpack, and quietly leaves, figuring it’s also best if he lets himself out of the house before Kieren’s parents wake up.

Dawn is only just breaking – golden sunlight spills over the living room, pooling over the carpet, casting every object in the room with an ethereal glow. Everything is still set up from Amy’s wake the day before. Simon briefly considers leaving a note for Kieren, but isn’t really sure how to explain that he’s “trying to sort out the mess I’ve created” in as many words. So he pushes open the back door instead, takes a breath, and begins the walk back to the bungalow.

 

* * *

 

He realises something isn’t right as soon as he reaches the top of the street.

The back door to the bungalow is slightly ajar, the lock broken, wood splintered. Simon walks carefully forward to inspect the damage, concerned. But he already knows. Nausea rolls across his stomach, and he pauses, carefully considering. This is it. There’s no avoiding it, really, and although he wasn’t expecting to have to confront it like this so soon, he knows it’s something that must be done.

He steps forward through the damaged doorway into the dark.

Julian is waiting for Simon in the living room, hand clutched loosely around the handle of an intimidating looking blade. A bonesaw. There's an instrument case filled with the things set open in front of him on the coffee table, but he says nothing as Simon enters.

Simon drops his bag to the floor and waits.

The moment stretches long and tense, heavy with implication, Julian staring at Simon, Simon regarding Julian carefully. After about a minute, Julian looks away, stroking almost absent-mindedly at the serrated blade of the bonesaw in his lap.

“Do you care to explain what happened?” Julian says. There’s a beat before he casts his gaze back up at Simon. 

Simon releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, his muscles still contracted and ready for a fight, and he swallows. “I made an… error,” he says. He knows that it’s important he shows no vulnerability, no weakness, for Kieren’s sake.

“Evidently,” Julian says, his eyes falling back to the blade.

He figures it’s best if he gets straight to the point. “I think the first Risen _was_ killed, but not by me.”

Julian looks back up at this, his gaze sharp. “What?”

“A woman was killed – Amy Dyer, the girl I returned to Roarton with. Other third party accounts described her as the first, and a member for Victus drove a blade into her chest at the twelfth hour. Her justification was that she, too, wished to trigger the second rising.”

Julian doesn’t look happy with this explanation, unsurprisingly. “So why did nothing happen?" 

Simon grits his teeth, nostrils flaring. “I cannot answer that.”

“The prophet is angry.” Julian shakes his head. “He wants answers. He wants someone to blame; he want you to face penance.”

Simon expected as much. He stands tall, though, back straight, and steps forward until he’s looming over Julian. He doesn’t really have a proper explanation, except for human error, and love (which could be considered one and the same, but caring for Kieren could never be considered a mistake). But neither the prophet, nor Julian, will accept that as an adequate answer, though, so Simon is at a loss. He’s pushing for extra time. He's pushing in the hope that he'll have an epiphany.

He's quietly panicking.

However, the longer Simon observes Julian, the more he sees how angry Julian really is: his grip is tight on the knife, eyes slightly wild, hair unruly, jaw clenched. Simon wonders if he could work that to his advantage. If Julian is likely to make impulsive decisions as a consequence. They’re sizing each other up, now, only a few feet separating them. “What are you waiting for, then?” Simon says, voice steady, even, and Julian laughs. It’s without mirth – a hollow, manic sound that echoes off the walls. 

Kieren decides, in that moment, to come barrelling into the living room, clutching a knife of his own.

Simon startles and turns; Julian looks equally surprised, rising from his seat, his own blade clenched tightly in his fist. If Simon thought Julian looked angry before, Kieren looks furious. Livid. He’s glaring utter daggers at Julian.

“Simon,” Kieren says, tone clipped, and inclines his head slightly in Simon’s direction. His gaze doesn’t shift away from Julian, though. Julian frowns.

“The lion and the lamb,” Julian says, looking between both of them. A smile spreads across his face, but it’s not kind. “So this is why you didn’t kill the boy. I should have known something was up the minute you called him ‘beautiful.’” He pauses. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Simon’s not really sure where to look. His immediate instinct is to step in front of Kieren, to protect him, but he knows that would simply anger Kieren further. He’s not sure why Kieren’s here in the first place, but he wonders if this might shift the fight further in his favour.

“Julian,” Julian says, after the silence has stretched for too long. “Since your boyfriend is too rude to introduce us. Disciple of the Undead Prophet.” He offers his hand. Kieren ignores it.

“Kieren,” Kieren says. “I know who you are.”

“And clearly I, you.” 

Kieren’s fingers twitch around the blade. Julian eyes it warily.

“Jem’s on her way, too,” Kieren says. “With a gun.” He glances over at Simon for the first time, briefly, before he looks back at Julian. “I called her as soon as I realised you weren’t alone.”

Simon feels an intense sort of passion for Kieren, in that moment. It bubbles up, warm, from his stomach, until he’s hot with it. He thinks he might love him. The thought is just as terrifying as Julian standing before him.

There's a sound outside. Julian's mouth pulls into a tight line.

“Well, this has been… insightful,” Julian says. He looks very uncomfortable. “I think I might just…” He gestures towards the door.

Simon grimaces. There is something to be said about only bringing a knife to a gunfight, even if it is a bonesaw.

“This isn’t over though, Simon,” Julian continues, collecting up his case and stowing it in the duffel bag at his feet. He rises. “We’ll be back.” As if to emphasise his point, he slams the bonesaw into the plaster wall.

He leaves.

Kieren drops the knife as Simon rushes forward, pulling Kieren into his arms. Kieren relaxes like his strings have suddenly been cut, burying his face in Simon’s jumper. He mutters something about it being prickly and ugly and awful, but Simon doesn’t care. He knows it’s not over, but Kieren has bought them time, and it’s far more that Simon could have expected.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling back, grasping Kieren’s face between his hands. Kieren tries to shrug, mouth quirking.

“I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t there.” 

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want your parents to… I hoped I’d be back before you woke.”

Kieren says, “I know, I –“ but Simon pulls Kieren forward, pressing their mouths together, hand moving to grasp Kieren’s hair.

Kieren gasps. He pulls away, eyes wide with wonder, choking on words.

 “Are you okay?” Simon says, concerned. But Kieren responds, after a beat, with, “I felt that. I fucking _felt that_ , god,” and Simon feels like his world shifts on its axis for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Something's happening. Something's changing. This isn't the end.

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> ... I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together.
> 
>                                                              _We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . ._
> 
>              When I say this, it should mean laughter,
> 
> not poison.
> 
>                   I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes.
> 
> Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.
> 
>                                                   Quit milling around the yard and come inside.
> 
>  


End file.
